The assembly hall was enormous.
Klaus hadn't expected this.
It wasn't just a fortress.
It was a city.
Underground.
Carved into the earth by mages with obsessive precision and inhuman patience.
Everything was here.
Storehouses packed with supplies, weapons, furs, leather.
Ice chambers preserving fresh meat.
Workshops.
Laundries.
Living quarters.
Even livestock.
If they learned how to grow crops down here—
and they would—
no one would ever need to see the surface again.
Ever.
The main hall didn't feel like a chamber.
It felt like a square.
A city square buried under stone.
Hundreds of glowing spheres drifted beneath the ceiling, casting steady light.
If not for the weight of rock above—
if not for the suffocating knowledge that the sky didn't exist here—
it could almost be mistaken for open air.
Almost.
As Klaus and August approached the massive arched doors—
the hall fell silent.
Instantly.
People stepped aside.
Heads lowered.
Bodies bent.
Some still dropped to their knees.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Klaus didn't slow.
Didn't acknowledge it.
He walked straight through them—
as if they weren't there.
Across the hall.
Up the stone steps.
Onto the raised platform.
An old man stood waiting.
Fragile.
So fragile it seemed the air itself might break him.
His hands trembled.
His staff trembled.
Even his breath shook.
He tried to bow—
and nearly collapsed.
Klaus caught him before he hit the ground.
"Don't," he said, quiet—but firm. "You'll fall."
"Your Highness…" the old man whispered, barely able to hold himself upright. "It is… an honor…"
He extended a small stone.
"This will carry your voice."
Klaus took it.
Studied it.
"Yours?"
"For years," the old man said, trembling, "I worked in secret. Air magic. Sound. Amplification. Distortion. Silence. These are… the only results that didn't kill me."
Klaus inclined his head.
"You risked your life to be heard," he said.
A pause.
"That matters more than most things done in palaces."
The old man froze.
A prince—
acknowledging him—
was unthinkable.
Klaus didn't wait.
He placed the device around his neck.
Closed his eyes briefly.
Stripped everything away.
Then—
"I am Klaus Defender."
His voice carried.
Sharp.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
"Crown Prince of Isorobia."
Silence.
"I did not come here to rule you."
A pause.
"I came because you already chose to stand against what rules you."
Murmurs spread.
Confusion.
Uncertainty.
"And yet," Klaus continued, his voice cutting through the noise, "you bow."
Sharper.
"You lower your heads."
A step forward.
"You kneel."
Another.
"Why?"
Silence.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
"You built this place without me," he said. "You gathered here without me. You chose to rebel—without me."
His gaze swept across the hall.
"So tell me—why are you still acting like livestock waiting for a master?"
That landed.
Hard.
A ripple of shock.
"Your Highness!" someone shouted. "How can we not bow? You are like a god to people like us!"
"Like what?" Klaus snapped.
Silence.
"Say it."
No one spoke.
"Say it," he repeated, colder.
A voice—quiet, shaking—
"…filth."
Klaus didn't flinch.
"I bleed," he said.
Flat.
"My blood is red."
A step forward.
"I get wounded. I get tired. I get angry."
Another.
"I can be killed as easily as any of you."
A pause.
"So what makes me a god?"
Silence.
"Birth?" he asked.
The word dropped like a blade.
No one moved.
"You say you want change," Klaus continued. "You say you want freedom."
His voice hardened.
"Then why are you still kneeling?"
A woman's voice, trembling—
"You are of the royal blood… how can we stand beside you?"
Klaus's eyes locked onto her.
"Isn't that why you're here?" he asked.
"To erase that difference?"
A pause.
"Or do you only want freedom as long as someone still stands above you?"
The hall broke into noise.
Uneasy.
Clashing.
"We don't deserve it!"
"We would be executed for thinking like that!"
"The prince stands above us!"
Klaus let them speak.
Let it grow.
Let it turn into chaos.
Then—
"What do you actually want?"
Loud.
Sharp.
Commanding.
Voices answered.
"Freedom!"
"To live!"
"To keep our families!"
"To learn!"
"To create!"
"To leave this place!"
A flood of voices.
Raw.
Desperate.
Klaus listened.
Until it quieted.
Then—
"I will not herd you," he said.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"I will not lead you like animals into a future you don't understand."
A pause.
"I am not the one you chose."
Murmurs again.
Confusion.
"It was him," Klaus said, jerking his head slightly toward August. "The one who cut his own crest from his flesh."
A beat.
"The one who threw away his name."
Another.
"He built this."
Silence.
"Not me."
"You are our king!" someone shouted.
"We will follow you!"
Klaus's expression darkened.
"You will follow me because of a title?"
Silence.
"You don't know me."
A step forward.
"You don't know what I will do."
Another.
"And still—you want to kneel?"
Silence crushed the hall.
"It was August you chose," Klaus said. "Not me."
A pause.
"I have given you nothing."
Another.
"So why are you so desperate to put me above you?"
Nothing.
Not a word.
August stepped closer.
Tugged lightly at his sleeve.
"Careful," he murmured. "They don't think the way you do."
Klaus knew.
Of course he knew.
Most of them had never chosen anything in their lives.
Slaves.
Soldiers.
Property.
Not people.
And now he was asking them—
to think.
To choose.
To stand.
He exhaled.
Adjusted.
"If you choose to follow me," he said, quieter—but heavier, "then do it because you want to."
A pause.
"Not because you're afraid not to."
His gaze moved across them again.
"I don't want your obedience."
Another.
"I want your will."
A beat.
"And you will have mine."
Silence.
Then—
"Alone, I will fail."
A step back.
"With you—I might not."
A pause.
"So decide."
His voice sharpened again.
"Are you ready to bleed for it?"
Another.
"To suffer for it."
A beat.
"For yourselves."
Another.
"For those who come after you."
Silence—
then it shattered.
Cheers.
Loud.
Uncontrolled.
They didn't understand freedom.
Not really.
But they wanted it.
Desperately.
"Then one condition," Klaus said, raising his hand.
The noise died instantly.
"No one kneels to me."
Flat.
Absolute.
"No 'Your Majesty.' Not yet."
A pause.
"I don't want fear."
Another.
"I want respect."
A beat.
"And I will earn it."
The hall erupted again.
Klaus stepped down.
August followed.
Hands reached for him.
Hesitant—
then desperate.
Klaus took every hand.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't care about dirt.
Scars.
Marks.
Filth.
None of it mattered.
The walk back—
should have taken minutes.
It took over an hour.
—
Harots paced.
Back and forth.
Again.
And again.
The long dining table stretched before him.
Empty.
He had been waiting for over an hour.
And still—
nothing.
"Boy!" he snapped.
A young servant—no older than thirteen—flinched and ran to him, dropping to his knees.
"Yes, master."
"Go tell your mistress I'm waiting. Or has no one bothered?"
"My apologies, master… but my lady is unwell. She does not wish to receive anyone."
The same answer.
Again.
And again.
Harots's patience snapped.
"Did you tell her who I am?"
"Yes, master. She… told me to tell you to go to hell."
The boy shook.
"I'm only repeating—"
Harots waved him off.
Turned.
Then stopped.
Cold.
"So she won't come to me."
A pause.
"Then I'll go to her."
Servants rushed to block the stairs.
Three of them.
Shaking.
Barely standing.
"Please, master—she forbade—"
"You dare stand in my way?"
His voice cut through them.
One nearly collapsed.
He shoved them aside.
Didn't slow.
"Minami," he called, stopping at her door. "I will speak to you whether you like it or not."
He threw it open.
Inside—
dim light.
Stale air.
And her.
Minami sat by the window.
Still.
Too still.
A bottle in her hand.
She drank.
Again.
Again.
Didn't look at him.
"Minami…" Harots said.
Quiet.
Uneasy.
"What happened to you?"
She turned.
Slowly.
Smiled.
Wrong.
Drunk beyond reason.
"I told them to send you away," she said lazily. "I don't want to look at that decaying face of yours."
A soft laugh.
"It reminds me what I am."
Her fingers traced her cheek.
"This face… still beautiful, isn't it?"
"You're drunk," Harots said. "What is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?" she laughed. "Didn't you hear?"
A pause.
"About my guest?"
"I sent him here," Harots said. "Did it disturb you that much?"
She stood.
Unsteady.
Smiling.
"Did you see him?" she asked. "How beautiful he is?"
A breath.
"Alive. Strong."
Her voice shifted.
Sharpened.
"He refused me."
Silence.
She moved closer.
Hands sliding over her body.
"Look at me," she whispered. "Do I not make you want me?"
She grabbed his hands.
Pressed them to her.
Harots froze.
"I don't understand," he said slowly. "Refused… what?"
She laughed.
Bright.
Unhinged.
"He wouldn't touch me."
A whisper.
"He wouldn't take me."
Understanding hit.
Violent.
"Minami," Harots said carefully. "You do realize… he is your son."
She blinked.
"Son?"
A soft smile.
"Look at me."
A step closer.
"Do I look like I could have a grown son?"
A pause.
"But he does resemble him…"
Her voice dropped.
"Strong. Commanding."
A breath.
"Those marks…"
Another.
"Those lips…"
"Minami!" Harots snapped. "Have you lost your mind?"
His voice shook.
"He is your blood. Your flesh. You gave birth to him."
A step back.
"How can you even think this?"
She laughed.
Soft.
Cold.
"Then bring him back."
A pause.
"Let him see what he refused."
Another.
"And die for it."
"You couldn't hold him with an army," Harots said. "How do you expect me to lure him back?"
"And he took my elixir," she added. "I want it back."
Her eyes darkened.
"I want that boy torn apart in front of him."
A breath.
"And when he begs—"
A smile.
"I'll kill him myself."
Silence.
Harots said nothing.
There was nothing left.
She was gone.
Completely.
"Will you do it?" she asked.
He turned away.
"I will do whatever you wish."
—